From the moment I landed the role on *The Mickey Mouse Club*, life became a whirlwind of dance rehearsals, singing lessons, acting classes, and recording sessions, squeezed in between schooling. The cast quickly formed cliques based on our shared dressing rooms, with Christina Aguilera and Nikki DeLoach among my closest companions, and I looked up to older members like Keri Russell, Ryan Gosling, and the heartthrob Tony Lucca. Amidst this, I developed a special connection with Justin Timberlake.

Our days on set in Orlando’s Disney World were an amalgamation of hard work and exhilarating play, a true kid’s paradise. However, the joy was momentarily dimmed when we received news of my grandmother Lily’s tragic passing. Unable to afford the journey back home, Justin Timberlake’s mother generously covered our travel costs, embodying the familial bond that had formed among us.

Amidst these profound experiences, my youthful crushes and first romantic encounters unfolded, marking moments of innocent excitement and discovery, including a memorable kiss from Justin to the tune of Janet Jackson, reminiscent of my first romantic thrill in third grade.

The year and a half on the show concluded, leaving me at a crossroads between pursuing my budding career in entertainment and returning to a semblance of normalcy in Kentwood, Louisiana. I chose the latter, craving the ordinary teenage experiences I had missed, from school activities to sneaking cigarettes and the occasional drink with my mom—a stark contrast to the hidden hedonism I found with friends.

These formative experiences paved the way for my eventual return to performance, spurred on by my mother’s guidance and connections. Through a mix of defiant independence, youthful indiscretions, and a deep-seated love for the stage, my journey was marked by a continual oscillation between the desire for a normal life and the allure of the limelight.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

CHAPTER 7
All the way home Patricia tasted Ann Savage’s nephew on her lips:
dusty spices, leather, unfamiliar skin. It made the blood fizz in her
veins, and then, overcome with guilt, she brushed her teeth twice,
found half of an old bottle of Listerine in the hall closet, and gargled
it until her lips tasted like artificial peppermint flavoring.
For the rest of the day, she lived in fear that someone would drop
by and ask what she’d been doing in Ann Savage’s house. She was
terrified she’d run into Mrs. Francine when she went to the Piggly
Wiggly. She jumped every time the phone rang, thinking it would be
Grace saying she’d heard Patricia tried to perform CPR on a sleeping
man.
But night came and no one said anything, and even though she
couldn’t meet Carter’s eyes at supper, by the time she went to bed
she’d forgotten the way the nephew’s lips had tasted. The next
morning she forgot about Francine somewhere between figuring out
where Korey needed to be dropped off and picked up all week, and
making sure Blue was studying for his State and Local History exam
instead of reading about Adolf Hitler.
She made sure Korey and Blue were enrolled in summer camp
(soccer for Korey and science day camp for Blue), she called Grace to
get the phone number of someone who could look at their air
conditioner, and she picked up groceries, and packed lunches, and
dropped off library books, and signed report cards (no summer
school this year, thankfully), and barely saw Carter every morning as
he dashed out the door (“I promise,” he told her, “as soon as this is
over we’ll go to the beach”), and suddenly a week had passed and she
sat at dinner, half listening to Korey complain about something she
wasn’t very interested in at all.
“Are you even listening to me?” Korey asked.
“Pardon?” Patricia asked, tuning back in.
“I don’t understand how we can almost be out of coffee again,”
Carter said from the other end of the table. “Are the kids eating it?”
“Hitler said caffeine was poison,” Blue said.
“I said,” Korey repeated, “Blue’s room faces the water and he can
open his windows and get a breeze. And he’s got a ceiling fan. It’s not
fair. Why can’t I get a fan in my room? Or stay at Laurie’s house until
you get the air fixed?”
“You’re not staying at Laurie’s house,” Patricia said.
“Why on earth would you want to live with the Gibsons?” Carter
asked.
At least when their children said completely irrational things they
were on the same page.
“Because the air conditioning is broken,” Korey said, pushing her
chicken breast around her plate with her fork.
“It’s not broken,” Patricia said. “It’s just not working very well.”
“Did you call the air-conditioner man?” Carter asked.
Patricia shot him a look in the secret language of parenting that
said, Stay on the same page with me in front of the children and
we’ll discuss this later.
“You didn’t call him, did you?” Carter said. “Korey’s right, it’s too
hot.”
Clearly, Carter didn’t speak the same secret language of parenting.
“I’ve got a photograph,” Miss Mary said.
“What’s that, Mom?” Carter asked.
Carter thought it was important his mother eat with them as often
as possible even though it was a struggle to get Blue to the table
when she did. Miss Mary dropped as much food in her lap as made it
into her mouth, and her water glass was cloudy with food she forgot
to swallow before taking a sip.
“You can see in the photograph that the man…,” Miss Mary said,
“he’s a man.”
“That’s right, Mom,” Carter said.
That was when a roach fell off the ceiling and landed in Miss
Mary’s water glass.
“Mom!” Korey screamed, jumping backward out of her seat.
“Roach!” Blue shouted, redundantly, scanning the ceiling for more.
“Got it!” Carter said, spotting another one on the chandelier, and
reaching for it with one of Patricia’s good linen napkins.
Patricia’s heart sank. She could already see this becoming a family
story about what a terrible house she kept. “Remember?” they would
ask each other when they were older. “Remember how Mom’s house
was so dirty a roach fell off the ceiling into Granny Mary’s glass?
Remember that?”
“Mom, that is disgusting!” Korey said. “Mom! Don’t let her drink
it!”
Patricia snapped out of it and saw Miss Mary picking up her water
glass, about to take a sip, the roach struggling in the cloudy water.
Launching herself out of her seat, she plucked the glass from Miss
Mary’s hand and dumped it down the sink. She ran the water and
washed the roach and the sludge of disintegrating food fragments
down the drain, then turned on the garbage disposal.
That was when the doorbell rang.
She could still hear Korey giving a performance in the dining room
and she wanted to make sure she missed that, so she shouted, “I’ll
get it,” and walked through the den to the quiet, dark front hall. Even
from there she could hear Korey carrying on. She opened the front
door and shame flooded her veins: Ann Savage’s nephew stood
beneath the porch light.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said. “I’ve come to return your
casserole dish.”
She could not believe this was the same man. He was still pale, but
his skin looked soft and unlined. His hair was parted on the left and
looked thick and full. He wore a khaki work shirt tucked into new
blue jeans, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick
forearms. A faint smile played at the corners of his thin lips, like they
shared a private joke. She felt her mouth twitching into a smile in
return. In one large hand he held the glass casserole dish. It was
spotless.
“I am so sorry for barging into your home,” she said, raising her
hand to cover her mouth.
“Patricia Campbell,” he said. “I remembered your name and
looked you up in the book. I know how people get about dropping off
food and never getting their plates back.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, reaching for the dish. He
held onto it.
“I’d like to apologize for my behavior,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry,” Patricia said, wondering how hard she could try to
pull the dish out of his hands before she started to seem rude. “You
must think I’m a fool, I interrupted your nap, I…I really did think
you were…I used to be a nurse. I don’t know how I made such a
stupid mistake. I’m so sorry.”
He furrowed his forehead, raised his eyebrows in the middle, and
looked sincerely concerned.
“You apologize a lot,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
She instantly realized what she’d done and froze, flustered, not
sure where to go next, so she blundered ahead. “The only people who
don’t apologize are psychopaths.”
The moment it came out of her mouth she wished she hadn’t said
anything. He studied her for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry to hear
that.”
They stood for a moment, face to face, as she processed what he’d
said, and then she burst out laughing. After a second, he did, too. He
let go of the casserole dish and she pulled it to her body, holding it
across her stomach like a shield.
“I’m not even going to say I’m sorry again,” she told him. “Can we
start over?”
He held out one big hand, “James Harris,” he said.
She shook it. It felt cool and strong.
“Patricia Campbell.”
“I am genuinely sorry about that,” he said, indicating his left ear.
Reminded of her mutilated ear, Patricia turned slightly to the left
and quickly brushed her hair over her stitches.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose that’s why I’ve got two.”
This time, his laugh was short and sudden.
“Not many people would be so generous with their ears.”
“I don’t remember being given a choice,” she said, then smiled to
let him know she was kidding.
He smiled back.
“Were the two of you close?” she asked. “You and Mrs. Savage?”
“None of our family are close,” he said. “But when family needs,
you go.”
She wanted to close the door and stand on the porch and have an
actual adult conversation with this man. She had been so terrified of
him, but he was warm, and funny, and he looked at her in a way that
made her feel seen. Shrill voices drifted from the house. She smiled,
embarrassed, and realized there was one way to get him to stay.
“Would you like to meet my family?” she asked.
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” he said.
“I’d consider it a personal favor if you did.”
He regarded her for a split second, expressionless, sizing her up,
and then he matched her smile.
“Only if it’s a real invitation,” he said.
“Consider yourself invited,” she said, standing aside. After a
moment he stepped over her threshold and into the dark front hall.
“Mr. Harris?” she said. “You won’t say anything about”—she
gestured with the casserole dish she held in both hands—“about this,
will you?”
His expression got serious.
“It’ll be our secret.”
“Thank you,” she said.
When she led him into the brightly lit dining room, everyone
stopped talking.
“Carter,” she said. “This is James Harris, Ann Savage’s
grandnephew. James, this is my husband, Dr. Carter Campbell.”
Carter stood up and shook hands automatically, as if he met the
nephew of the woman who’d bitten off his wife’s ear every day. Blue
and Korey, on the other hand, looked from their mother to this
enormous stranger in horror, wondering why she’d let him into their
house.
“This is our son, Carter Jr., although we call him Blue, and our
daughter, Korey,” Patricia said.
As James shook Blue’s hand and walked around the table to shake
Korey’s, Patricia saw her family through his eyes: Blue staring at him
rudely. Korey standing behind her chair in her Baja hoodie and
soccer shorts, gawping at him like he was a zoo animal. Miss Mary
chewing and chewing even though her mouth was empty.
“This is Miss Mary Campbell, my mother-in-law, who’s staying
with us.”
James Harris held out a hand to Miss Mary, who kept sucking her
lips while staring hard at the salt and pepper shakers.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said.
Miss Mary raised her watery eyes to his face and studied him for a
moment, chin trembling, then looked back down at the salt and
pepper.
“I’ve got a photograph,” she said.
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” James Harris said, pulling
his hand back. “I was just returning a dish.”
“Won’t you join us for dessert?” Patricia asked.
“I couldn’t…,” James Harris began.
“Blue, clear the table,” Patricia said. “Korey, get the bowls.”
“I do have a sweet tooth,” James Harris said as Blue passed him
carrying a stack of dirty plates.
“You can sit here,” Patricia said, nodding to the empty chair on her
left. It creaked alarmingly as James Harris eased himself into it.
Bowls appeared and the half gallon of Breyers found its place in front
of Carter. He began to hack at the surface of the freezer-burned ice
cream with a large spoon.
“What do you do for a living?” Carter asked.
“All kinds of things,” James said as Korey placed a stack of ice
cream bowls in front of her father. “But right now, I’ve got a little
money put aside to invest.”
Patricia reconsidered. Was he rich?
“In what?” Carter asked, scraping long white curls of ice cream
into everyone’s bowls and passing them around the table. “Stocks
and bonds? Small business? Microchips?”
“I was thinking something more local,” James Harris said. “Maybe
real estate.”
Carter reached across the table and put a bowl of ice cream in front
of James, then fitted a thick-handled spoon into his mother’s hand
and led it to the bowl of vanilla in front of her.
“Not my area,” he said, losing interest.
“You know,” Patricia said. “My friend Slick Paley at book club? Her
husband, Leland, they’re into real estate. They might be able to tell
you something about the situation here.”
“You’re in a book club?” James asked. “I love to read.”
“Who do you read?” Patricia asked as Carter ignored them and fed
his mother, and Blue and Korey continued to stare.
“I’m a big Ayn Rand fan,” James Harris said. “Kesey, Ginsburg,
Kerouac. Have you read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Maintenance?”
“Are you a hippie?” Korey asked.
Patricia felt pathetically grateful that James Harris ignored her
daughter.
“Are you looking for new members?” he continued.
“Ugh,” Korey said. “They’re a bunch of old ladies sitting around
drinking wine. They don’t even actually read the books.”
Patricia didn’t know where these things came from. She’d chalk it
up to Korey becoming a teenager, but Maryellen had said they
became teenagers when you stopped liking them, and she still liked
her daughter.
“What kind of books do you read?” James asked, still ignoring
Korey.
“All kinds,” Patricia said. “We just read a wonderful book about life
in a small Guyanese town in the 1970s.”
She didn’t mention that it was Raven: The Untold Story of the
Rev. Jim Jones and His People.
“They rent the movies,” Korey said. “And pretend to read the
books.”
“There wasn’t a movie for this book,” Patricia said, forcing herself
to smile.
James Harris wasn’t listening. He had his eyes on Korey.
“Is there a reason you’re being fresh to your mother?” he asked.
“She’s not usually like this,” Patricia said. “It’s all right.”
“Some people use literature to understand their lives,” James
Harris said, continuing to stare at Korey, who squirmed beneath the
intensity of his gaze. “What are you reading?”
“Hamlet,” Korey said. “That’s by Shakespeare.”
“Assigned reading,” James Harris said. “I meant, what are you
reading that other people didn’t pick out for you?”
“I don’t have time to sit around reading books,” Korey said. “I
actually go to school and I’m captain of the soccer team and the
volleyball team.”
“A reader lives many lives,” James Harris said. “The person who
doesn’t read lives but one. But if you’re happy just doing what you’re
told and reading what other people think you should read, then don’t
let me stop you. I just find it sad.”
“I…,” Korey began, working her mouth. Then stopped. No one had
ever called her sad before. “Whatever,” she said, and slumped back in
her chair.
Patricia wondered if she should be upset. This was new territory
for her.
“What book are y’all talking about?” Carter asked, tucking more ice
cream into his mother’s mouth.
“Your wife’s book club,” James Harris said. “I guess I’m partial to
readers. I grew up a military brat, and wherever I went, books were
my friends.”
“Because you don’t have any real ones,” Korey mumbled.
Miss Mary looked up, right at James Harris, and Patricia could
almost hear her eyes zoom in on him.
“I want my money,” Miss Mary said angrily. “That’s Daddy’s
money you owe.”
There was silence at the table.
“What’s that, Mom?” Carter asked.
“You came creeping back, you,” Miss Mary said. “But I see you.”
Miss Mary glared at James Harris, fuzzy gray eyebrows furrowed,
the slack skin around her mouth pulled into an angry knot. Patricia
turned to James Harris and saw him thinking, genuinely trying to
puzzle something out.
“She thinks you’re someone from her past,” Carter explained. “She
comes and goes.”
Miss Mary’s chair scraped backward with an ear-grinding shriek.
“Mom,” Carter said, taking her arm. “Are you finished? Let me
help you.”
She jerked her arm out of Carter’s grip and rose, eyes fixed on
James Harris.
“You’re the seventh son of a saltless mother,” Miss Mary said, and
took a step toward him. The wattles of fat beneath her chin quivered.
“When the Dog Days come we’ll put nails through your eyes.”
She reached out and pressed her hand against the table, holding
herself up. She swayed over James Harris.
“Mom,” Carter said. “Calm down.”
“You thought no one would recognize you,” Miss Mary said. “But
I’ve got your photograph, Hoyt.”
James Harris stared up at Miss Mary, not moving. He didn’t even
blink.
“Hoyt Pickens,” Miss Mary said. Then she spat. She meant for it to
be a country hawker, something sharp that would slap the dirt, but
instead a wad of white saliva thickened with vanilla ice cream and
speckled with chicken oozed over her lower lip, then rolled down her
chin and plopped onto the front of her dress.
“Mom!” Carter said.
Patricia saw Blue gag and clap his napkin over the lower half of his
face. Korey leaned back in her chair, away from her grandmother,
and Carter reached for his mother, napkin outstretched.
“I’m so sorry,” Patricia said to James Harris as she got up.
“I know who you are,” Miss Mary shouted at James Harris. “In
your ice cream suit.”
Patricia hated Miss Mary at that moment. Someone interesting
had come into their home to talk about books, and Miss Mary
wouldn’t even let her have that.
She hustled Miss Mary out of the dining room, pulling her beneath
the armpits, not caring if she was a little rough. Behind her, she was
aware of James Harris rising as Carter and Korey both started
talking at once, and she hoped he was still there when she got back.
She hauled Miss Mary to the garage room and got her seated in her
chair with the plastic bowl of water and her toothbrush and came
back to the dining room. The only person left was Carter, sucking on
his ice cream, hunched over his bowl.
“Is he still here?” Patricia asked.
“He left,” Carter said, through a mouthful of vanilla. “Mom seemed
weird tonight, don’t you think?”

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

7
I don’t let him pick me up.
I’d be insane to let Eddie see where I really live, and the thought of him and John crossing paths
is enough to make me shudder. No, I want to exist only in Eddie’s world, like I’d sprung from
somewhere else, fully formed, unknowable.
It’s true enough, really.
So, I meet him in English Village, a part of Mountain Brook I’ve never been to, although I’d heard
Emily mention it. There are lots of “villages” in Mountain Brook: Cahaba Village, Overton Village,
and Mountain Brook Village itself. It seemed silly to me, using a word like village to mean different
part of the same community—just use neighborhood, you pretentious assholes, we don’t live in the
English countryside—but what did I know?
I park far away from the French bistro where Eddie made a reservation, praying he won’t ask to
walk me to my car later, and meet him under the gold-and-black-striped awning of the restaurant.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a white shirt, a nice complement to the deep eggplant of my
dress, and his hand is warm on my lower back when the maître d’ shows us to our table.
Low lights, white tablecloths, a bottle of wine. That’s the part that stands out to me most, how
casually he orders an entire bottle of wine while I was still looking at the by-the-glass prices,
wondering what would sound sophisticated, but wouldn’t be too expensive.
The bottle he selects is over a hundred dollars, and my cheeks flush at knowing I’m worth an
expensive bottle of wine to him. After that, I put the menu away entirely, happy to let him order for
me.
“What if I pick something you don’t like?” he asks, but he’s smiling, His skin doesn’t seem as pale
as it did that first day. His blue eyes are no longer rimmed with red, and I wonder if I’ve made him
happy. It’s a heady thought, even more intoxicating than the wine.
“I like everything,” I reply. I don’t mean for the words to sound sexy, but they do, and when the
dimple in his cheek deepens, I wonder what else I can say that will make him look at me like that.
Then his eyes drop lower.
At first, I think he’s looking at the low neckline of my dress, but then he says, “That necklace.”
Fuck.
It had been stupid to wear it. Reckless, something I very rarely was, but when I’d looked in the
mirror before leaving, I’d looked so plain with no jewelry. The chain I’d taken from Mrs. McLaren
wasn’t anything fancy, no diamonds or jewels, just a simple silver chain with a little gold-and-silver
charm on it.
A bee, I now realize, and my stomach sinks, fingers twisting in my napkin.
“A friend gave it to me,” I say, striving for lightness, but I’m already touching the charm, feeling it
warm against my chest.
“It’s pretty,” he says, then glances down. “My late wife’s company makes one similar, so…”
Eddie trails off, and his fingers start that drumming on the table again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I … I heard about Southern Manors, and it’s—”
“Let’s not talk about it. Her.” His head shoots up, his smile fixed in place, but it’s not real, and I
want to reach across the table and take his hands, but we’re not there yet, are we? I want to ask him
everything about Bea, and forget she existed, all at the same time.
I want.
I want.
As the waiter approaches with our expensive wine, I smile at Eddie. “Then let’s talk about you.”
He raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat. “What do you want to know?” he asks.
I wait until the server has finished pouring a sample of the wine into Eddie’s glass, then wait for
Eddie to take a sip, nod, and gesture for our glasses to be filled, a thing I’ve only ever seen happen in
movies or on reality shows about rich housewives. And now it’s happening to me. Now I’m one of
the people who has those kinds of dinners.
Once we have full glasses, I mimic Eddie’s posture, sitting back. “Where did you grow up?”
“Maine,” he answers easily, “little town called Searsport. My mom still lives there; so does my
brother. I got out as soon as I could, though. Went to college in Bangor.” Eddie sips his wine, looking
at me. “Have you ever been to Maine?”
I shake my head. “No. But I read a lot of Stephen King as a teenager, so I feel like I have a good
idea of what it’s like.”
That makes him laugh, like I’d hoped it would. “Well, fewer pet cemeteries and killer clowns, but
yeah, basically.”
Leaning forward, I fold my arms on the table, not missing the way his gaze drifts from my face to
the neckline of my dress. It’s a fleeting glance, one I’m used to getting from men, but coming from him,
it doesn’t feel creepy or unwanted. I actually like him looking at me.
Another novelty. “Living here must be a big change,” I say, and he shrugs.
“I moved around a lot after college. Worked with a friend flipping houses all over the Midwest.
Settled in California for a bit. That’s where I first got my contractor’s license. Thought I’d stay there
forever, but then I went on vacation, and…”
He trails off, and I jump in, not wanting another loaded silence.
“Have you ever thought of going back?”
Surprised, he pours himself a little more wine. “To Maine?”
I shrug. “Or California.” I wonder why he stays in a place that must have so many bad memories
for him, a place in which he seems to stick out, just the slightest bit, to be set apart, even with all his
money and nice clothes.
“Well, Southern Manors is based here,” he replies. “I could run the contracting business from
somewhere else, but Bea was really set on Southern Manors being an Alabama company. It would
feel … I don’t know. Like a betrayal, I guess. Moving it somewhere else. Or selling it.”
His expression softens a little. “It’s her legacy, and I feel a responsibility to protect it.”
I nod, glad our food arrives just at that moment so that this conversation can die a natural death. I
already know how important Southern Manors is to him. In my Google stalking, I found several
articles about how just a few months after Bea went missing, Eddie fought for a court order to have
her declared legally dead. It had something to do with Southern Manors, and there was a lot of
business and legal jargon in it I hadn’t understood, but I’d gotten the gist—Bea had to be dead on
paper for Eddie to take over and run the company the way she would’ve wanted it to be run.
I wondered how that had made him feel, declaring his wife’s death in such a formal, final way.
As he cuts into his steak, he looks up at me, smiling a little. “Enough about me. I want to hear
about you.”
I provide a few charming anecdotes, painting Jane’s life in a flattering light. Some of the stories
are real (high school in Arizona), some are half-truths, and some are stolen from friends.
But he seems to enjoy them, smiling and nodding throughout the meal, and by the time the check
comes, I’m more relaxed and confident than I’d ever thought I’d be on this date.
And when we leave, he takes my hand, slipping it into the crook of his elbow as we exit the
restaurant.
It’s ridiculous, I know that. Me, here with him. Me, with my arm linked through his.
Me, in his life.
But here I am, and as we make our way to the sidewalk, I hold my head up higher, stepping closer
to him, the edge of my skirt brushing his thighs.
The night is warm and damp, my hair curling around my face, streetlights reflecting in puddles and
potholes, and I wonder if he’ll kiss me.
If he’ll ask me to stay the night.
I’m going to.
He’d ordered a piece of pie to go, and I think about eating it with him in his gorgeous kitchen. Or
in his bed. Is that why he’d ordered it?
I think about walking into that house at night, how pretty the recessed lighting will be in the
darkness. What the backyard will look like when the sun comes up. What his sheets feel and smell
like, what it’s like to wake up in that house.
“You’re quiet,” Eddie says, tucking me closer to his side as we wander, and I tilt my head up to
smile at him.
“Can I be honest?”
“Can I stop you?”
I nudge him slightly at that, feeling how solid and warm he is beside me. “I was thinking that it’s
been a long time since I’ve been on a date.”
“Me, too,” he replies.
In the streetlights, he’s so handsome it makes my chest ache, and my fingers rub against the
softness of his jacket, the material expensive and well-made. Nicer than anything I own.
“I’m—” I start, and he turns his head. I think he might kiss me there, right there on the street in
English Village where anyone might see us, but before he can, there’s a voice.
“Eddie!”
We turn at almost the same time, facing a man on the sidewalk who looks like Tripp Ingraham or
Matt McLaren or Saul Clark or any of the other pastel guys in Thornfield Estates.
He’s got his face screwed up, that expression of sympathy that twists mouths down and eyebrows
together. His thinning blond hair looks orange in the streetlights, and when he lifts a hand to shake

In Chapter 7 of “The Beasts of Tarzan,” titled “Betrayed,” the narrative unfolds with Kaviri and Mugambi, two indigenous leaders, anxiously discussing the alarming approach of Tarzan and his fearsome jungle companions towards Kaviri’s village. The alarming discord emanating from the jungle as Tarzan, together with Sheeta (a panther) and Akut’s menacing apes, drive the villagers back to their homes, reflects a strategic move by Tarzan to gather forces for an expedition on the river. Under Tarzan’s unwavering command, the terrified villagers, with no alternative, resign themselves to accompany him, revealing Tarzan’s formidable influence over both man and beast.

The expedition proceeds deeper into the untamed heartlands bordering the Ugambi River, with Tarzan’s group encountering deserted villages, a testament to the pall of fear his ensemble casts among the tribes. Despite his overtures for interaction with the local tribes proving futile due to their withdrawal at his approach, Tarzan’s relentless pursuit of the nefarious Rokoff underscores his dedication to justice.

By ingeniously impersonating a panther to gain the confidence of a village’s inhabitants, Tarzan’s adaptability and wit are showcased, allowing him to secure shelter and potential allies. His quest reveals intersecting paths with Rokoff and an unknown party which includes a woman, a man, and a child, further complicating his journey with personal stakes.

Tarzan’s decision to momentarily secede from his followers to track Rokoff alone, using his unparalleled jungle prowess, offers a deep dive into his strategic mind and unparalleled survival skills. His interactions with various tribal communities underscore the blend of respect and fear he commands in the wild, navigating through cultural and communication barriers with ease.

The chapter culminates with Tarzan’s calculated move to rest within a seemingly hospitable village, only to be unwittingly ensnared into a trap orchestrated by the village chief and Rokoff. This twist not only speaks to the perils that beset Tarzan in his relentless pursuit but also sets the stage for a confrontation fraught with danger and deceit.

Amidst the lush, treacherous terrains of the Ugambi, Tarzan’s singular devotion to thwarting Rokoff’s scheming plots unfolds with an astute blend of brute force, keen intelligence, and an indomitable will, further enriching the saga of this timeless jungle hero.